


Considered Rude

by liketreesinnovember



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 06:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16907958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketreesinnovember/pseuds/liketreesinnovember
Summary: "I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother."Tyrion travels to King's Landing with his father for Joffrey's birth.





	Considered Rude

The bells atop the Sept of Baelor ring through the city from sunrise to sunset on the day of the birth of King Robert’s first child. Tyrion is thirteen years old and it is deemed unnecessary and possibly upsetting for him to be allowed into the birthing room, so he must needs find occupation elsewhere.

Not that he would have wanted to see Cersei’s ugly welp, he tells himself. _My nephew_ , another voice says, but that thought feels so odd to him that he does not dwell on it. The idea of him being anyone’s uncle seems too strange. He has uncles of his own, but they pay him little mind, save for Gerion, but Uncle Gery is big and strong and no one calls him _Imp._

And anyway, Tyrion has other things in mind when he comes to King’s Landing. Remembering his first visit to the Red Keep after the rebellion had been won and Robert had been crowned king, Tyrion slips away from the others at the soonest opportunity and makes his way down to the dank cellar where he had found the dragon skulls.

They are as they had been when he had first laid eyes on them. They are much too majestic to be kept hidden in such a place, Tyrion thinks. Yet he likes it here, in the dark with the monsters. The skulls are terrifying but somehow comforting, like old friends.

At dusk his presence is required at the feast, though he is placed on the far end of the table, on his father's left side. Jaime is seated on father's right, nearer to the King, and Uncle Gery further down. Even if Tyrion had been seated next to someone he might have wanted to converse with, it is nearly impossible to hear with how loud it is in the hall. There are singers and players and the constant buzz of conversations happening around him, and King Robert’s roaring laughter that drowns out all else. His sister is not at the table, but is at rest with the babe, he gathers from the conversation. A cold fist seizes his heart when he hears this, although he is not sure why.

Tyrion eats, and drinks the wine that is set out for him, and when his cup is refilled he drinks that as well. He has developed a taste for wine in the past few months. Even with the poorest vintage, each cup goes down easier.

His father had told him before the feast that he is not to be heard, nor to draw any more attention to himself than must be helped. His presence is shame enough, especially after Tyrion had proven to his father his determination to be disobedient.

“Yes, father,” Tyrion had said dutifully.

He can’t help but listen to the King’s stories, as his is the loudest voice at the table - louder even than the muffled din of the wine as it buzzes around his head - and Robert’s laughter is contagious, so Tyrion finds himself laughing too, even when he doesn’t understand the joke, even though he doesn't care about the dull king and his dull court. It is very hot in the hall, and Tyrion’s doublet is itchy. His mouth is dry but his cup always seems to be full.

“ - the boy looks so bloody _Lannister_ that you might think the blond cunts have found a way to breed by themselves.”

Even with the noise and the suffocating heat, Tyrion notices the brief look on his brother’s face, a spasm of rage that passes almost as soon as it came. His father’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but nothing is said.

“The way she behaves, a man might think there was a bloody cock under her skirts as well as a cunt - “

 _It’s Jaime’s cock she’s got hiding under her skirts,_ Tyrion thinks, and laughs to himself, but it comes out much too loudly.

Lord Tywin puts a hand lightly on his son's arm. A warning. Tyrion looks up at his father’s cold, gold-flecked eyes.

Those eyes might have been enough to silence him, but he is somehow emboldened by the wine. And, for some reason, without meaning to, he finds that he is speaking aloud.

“Are you enjoying the festivities, father? I certainly am. And I - ”

Tyrion reaches for his wine cup but forgets where he has set it, and has miscalculated the movements of his stunted limbs. His hand collides with a carafe and dark wine spills across the table.

The conversation stops and all eyes are on him for a terrible moment that seems to stretch on into eternity before it is punctuated by Robert’s uproarious laughter.

The entire hall breaks out into laughter then.

When it dies, Lord Tywin speaks, calmly and quietly, although his voice is loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “Ser Jaime will take my son up to bed now.”

But Tyrion finds that his tongue has loosened. “No, I don’t think I am tired, father.” _And I am not a child._ He’s thirteen years old, almost a man grown. He has known a woman. But a voice in the back of his head says _fool, fool, foolish child._

He does not have time to see how his father will respond, as a moment later Jaime is out of his seat and Tyrion feels a hand on his shoulder.

Tyrion gazes up at his brother, clad in Kingsguard white. “Hello, sweet brother. This is all quite generous of our brother-in-law the King, isn’t it? All for the pleasure of fucking ou - let me go!”

Tyrion finds himself lifted bodily out of the chair as easily as if he were a kitten, and he struggles in vain against Jaime’s strong grip, arms and legs flailing uselessly. His stomach rumbles and abruptly the wine comes burning back up his throat and he vomits onto Jaime’s white breast.

The room erupts into boisterous laughter, louder than before. Everything seems to be moving around him, the laughing faces weaving in and out in a dizzying waltz, but there was no music. Tyrion wonders if the players are laughing too, as they seemed to have stopped their playing.

He continues to struggle as he is carried out of the hall, but eventually his strength gives way and his body goes limp in his brother's arms. He leans his head on Jaime's broad chest, and his hands tighten around his big brother to try to stop everything from spinning.

The cool night air hits him like King Robert’s warhammer, and he finds himself shivering as Jaime sets him down on soft earth. He vomits again, on his hands and knees in the dirt, his throat on fire and his whole body trembling with sickness.

“What in the hells has gotten into you?” Jaime demands.

“A bit of wine, that’s all.” Tyrion spits the words like a curse in between flecks of vomit.

“I can see that you are drunk. That isn’t what I meant.”

Tyrion’s shaking legs and arms give over to exhaustion and he lays with the side of his face pressed against the cool dirt, his stomach seemingly empty for the moment. “I don’t see why you should care. You were away.”

“You’re blaming me for my Kingsguard duties?”

“Yes, I know how much that white cloak means to you.” Tyrion shuts his eyes and tries to will his head to stop throbbing. “Do you wear it when you fuck our sister?”

“Have I done something to anger you?”

“No, no, you’ve been perfect, sweet brother, perfectly - “ Tyrion pushes himself up again on his hands and knees and vomits once more. The wine does not taste better coming back up. “Perfectly accommodating. I’d still be - I’d still be less than _half_ a man if - “ His stomach threatens to release more of its stinking contents, but what comes out instead when he opens his mouth is a choking sob.

Tyrion feels himself being lifted off the ground again and this time he does not struggle, but clings to the front of Jaime’s tunic. It’s wet and smells of wretched up wine. The wine he’d shared with the crofter’s daughter (she was no crofter’s daughter) had been bitter, but he had thought it sweet then. He hides his face in Jaime’s breast so his brother doesn’t see his tears.

“She...”

When he closes his eyes he smells the room, sex and blood and sweat, and sees his father’s eyes, and hears the clink of coins. _Tysha, Tysha. Can you hear me?_ The men are laughing…

Dimly he’s aware of being placed on something soft, and then Jaime is undressing him.

“No, I don’t...no…”

“You need to sleep it off. You'll be alright.”

Tyrion sinks back onto the featherbed and lets Jaime wipe his face and neck and hands with a damp cloth. Then his brother rises from the bed, promising to return on the morrow with bread and water.

“Jaime.”

“Yes?”

“Is she going to die?”

“No, the maesters say she is out of danger, and the babe is healthy.” There is curiosity in Jaime’s voice, and surprise that Tyrion would ask. And something else, too. Pain. Not worry for Cersei but something else, a different kind of pain. It makes Tyrion suddenly angry. And gods, his head is hurting.

“I wish she would have died. I wish both of them would have.” He's not sure if he really means it, but it feels good to say it.

Jaime leaves without a word and shuts the door behind him.

  
Tyrion's maester had told him once that you shouldn't say things unless you mean them, so he decides he does mean it. _Did I mean it, when father made me?_ The men were all laughing, and sometimes in his memory Tysha is laughing at him, too, although he knows she must not have been. _No, she wasn't laughing, she was crying_. She was, I was... _was I crying_?


End file.
